VANGUARD(21)

The farther north they went, the quieter the highway became. About forty miles away from Parnaas, the roads became deserted save for military checkpoints. Soon the Rev started dodging bomb craters in the highway. The countryside was desolate, homes and businesses abandoned. They crawled along the border between the Soviet Republic and Orlisia until they reached the town of Parnaas. The civilian population had fled, leaving the community teeming with soldiers, criminals, and black marketeers. When they stopped for a brief rest there, they heard it.

It was a low, powerful sound, like a waterfall thundering in the distance. Both the Rev and Sophie knew it – the sound of tens of thousands of people gathered in one small place. As they stood listening, the wind shifted, and Sophie vomited without warning beside the vehicle.

“You okay?” The Rev came around to put his hand on her back. She wiped her mouth, fumbling for her water bottle and feeling embarrassed.

“Yeah, fine. I puked the first time I smelled a camp when I was a teenager, and it’s been a tradition for me ever since. Will never let me live it down.” She rinsed her mouth, spat, and climbed back into the SUV. “Let’s go.” The translator looked a bit green himself, perhaps wishing he hadn’t taken this assignment. The guard seemed bored.

After another fifteen minutes jerking along the cratered road, they reached the blockade. Armed Soviet soldiers waved them to a stop. They couldn’t see the camp from where they were, but the noise and smell grew stronger. The Rev and Sophie got out and walked toward the guards. The translator scurried out behind them, but Sophie sent him back.

“Good morning,” she called in Russian, enjoying the surprise on the guards’ faces. “I am Sophie Swenda of the Refugee Crisis Coalition. This is my colleague, David Bryson. We are here to meet with the Commandant and begin work.” The guards looked at her in silence. One of them finally spoke.

“Foreigners may not enter Parnaas.”

“We are here at the request of the Soviet government, and on the personal invitation of Commandant Jaros,” she said pleasantly. “Last time I checked, the Commandant outranks you, Ser?antko.” She silently thanked Alex for teaching her the ranking system of the Soviet army. “The Commandant awaits us. Please advise him that we are here.” She gestured to the Rev, and they walked away from the guards.

“What was that?” he hissed as they got back into the car.

“Round one,” she replied, “of a very long fight.”

They watched while the guard had an animated conversation on his phone. Then he walked over to the SUV.

“Drive forward slowly to the gates.” He gave Sophie an uneasy glance. She smiled back. The blockade moved aside, and they crept forward. They traveled half a mile and crested a rise to find the Parnaas camp spread out beneath them.

Acres of barbed wire fencing surrounded the massive encampment. Armed pickets patrolled outside, and Sophie could see tanks farther on. A cluster of rough administrative buildings stood to the left, inside the compound. Then beyond that, as far as she could see, stretched an ocean of makeshift shelters. Miles of them, on a scale she’d never before witnessed.

Beside her, the Rev crossed himself. Sophie saw bodies lying face down outside the gates, a skim of snow over them. It wasn’t enough to cover the fact that they’d been shot. Escapees, their corpses left to freeze. She resisted a horrible impulse to run to the bodies and turn them over. If she started looking for his face now, she’d never be able to stop.

They left their vehicle with their guard, taking the translator with them. Inside the administrative building, it was blessedly warm. They could hear the hum of a generator nearby. A jovial figure awaited them: an older man with salt and pepper hair, thick around the waist, his watery blue eyes sparkling with excitement. He had a wide smile.

“Welcome!” he boomed in Russian. “Welcome to the Soviet Republic. I am Commandant Vasily Jaros.” He beamed at them like they were neighbors joining him for a backyard barbeque. Sophie kept her features carefully neutral. She could hear the translator murmuring to Dave in the background. Jaros spoke Russian, but Sophie had no doubt he’d be fluent in English as well.

“Thank you for seeing us, Commandant Jaros. My name is Sophie Swenda from the Refugee Crisis Coalition. This is my colleague, David Bryson.” The Commandant’s face showed momentary shock at Sophie’s mastery of the Russian language, then clasped his hands together in delight.

“Such a beautiful young lady speaking the language of my country so well,” he marveled. “Truly a pleasure. Does your colleague also speak Russian?”